Wild Dogs
by PhoenixFlame6
Summary: When it's open season for crime in Los Santos, Trevor has his pick of wide-eyed thieves to add to his crew. Michael's not sure if he should feel sorrier for the LSPD or the lawbreakers. A collection of vignettes following the heist of the Union Depository.
1. In vino veritas

**Wild Dogs**

**Chapter One: In vino veritas**

**A/N: **When it's open season for crime in Los Santos, Trevor has his pick of wide-eyed up-and-coming thieves for new crew. Michael's not sure if he should feel sorrier for the LSPD or the lawbreakers. A collection of vignettes following the heist of the Union Depository.

I highly value feedback of all kinds. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

It started, as most things do, with booze.

Michael is sprawled back on his elbows, eyes lacquered from too many beers…ah, who is he kidding? _'Too many' lands you in the hospital getting charcoal shoved down your gullet while Amanda threatens…no, not too many beers at all._ Just enough. Enough to feel good, and enough to be stupid but not too stupid.

Trevor sits cross-legged beside him, rolling a bottle between his restless hands. Throwing bottles into the pool had been Michael's idea. Throwing them at joggers and dog walkers had been Trevor's.

They climbed onto the roof an hour ago, after sundown. He's sat up here with Amanda a time or two—it reminds him of their old trailer where the roof counted as another room. His wife is at a spa retreat until Sunday—he's already gotten her texts demanding he restock the liquor cabinet so she can gargle out the taste of Swiss chard and parsley. It's progress when texts end in _Thk u 3_, right?

Were she here, he'd be risking civil war for inviting Trevor onto his property.

"What the hell did we do?" He knows he sounds more serious than he means.

"Pulled back the curtain. Showed Uncle Sam with his dick hanging out."

Michael snorts, thinking of Dave. _Mad we knocked off the Union Depository? Probably not then, but now? M_ichael swears he had no idea what would happen after the news crews feasted on the story—open season in Los Santos for petty crime and dead kids.

Kids out of Adderall refills seem to think robbing the Depository means anyone can fuck over the government, or at least the Balkan store clerk at the bottom of Rockford Hills. Michael took one look at him when he was jonesing for some nicotine—_gum_, he made himself say—and marked him as someone he wouldn't want to fuck with without a good reason. The guy had the gunmetal eyes of someone who snapped necks and fired SMGs into refugee camps. When two fool kids drew pistols, he blasted one's head off and crippled the other, and cops crowned him a true American.

Los Santos is no Carcer City—by day it looks the same as ever. By night, he doesn't like Amanda out without him, even though in years past he's seen her drive her stilettos through the feet of guys who got too grabby. At this rate, the LSPD could soon be tri-athletes from all the exercise.

Trevor lobs the last bottle in a high arc so it plummets just past the fence. The light catches the glint of his grin when a man squeals and glass shatters. Michael knew his grin would be wider if he'd been lobbing grenades. And now Trevor's hands are empty. Never a good thing.

"Law of averages," Trevor drawls, baring something between a smile and grimace, "Some of the brats must be like Franklin. Malleable upstarts, just waiting for the right opportunity."

_Christ._ Michael knew that almost hazy look when Trevor was thinking a dozen things and none. Bastard was probably getting high off the chlorine wafting up from the pool. Take away the bottles and he'd be arguing, but beer gives him a small bump in sense.

"That's your stuff, T. I do movies."

Trevor's eyes narrow. His breath reeks of beer—given his meth habit, the man has good teeth—enough beer to mellow him the slightest.

"Bullshit." A challenge, not an attack.

"It's—" _Aw fuck it. _He thinks of Amanda, several weeks ago, another night with just the right amount of alcohol.

* * *

No kids in the house is cause enough for celebration. They're lying on the bed, spooning like teenagers. Amanda's face is half-buried in a pillow.

"I don't get you," she murmurs, not sounding like she wants a fight.

Michael's eyes open. "_Mm?_"

She shifts against his chest, finding a position the slightest bit more comfortable. His arm is draped over her side; he crooks his elbow when she says nothing, wondering if she's drifted off.

"You're never nicer to us than when you're…" She is mumbling through five Kamikazes, so much he can't catch the last word. But he can guess.

_Running? Robbing? Murdering?_

"Babe?"

He jostles her again and she snuggles against him. They've relearned how to talk since the Depository heist four months ago. It's never apple pies and Hallmark cards, but things are easier._ Fuck you, you ungrateful prick._ Things are better than easy. Things are great and it scares the shit out of him. _At least at rock bottom you know where you stand._ The moment he doesn't feel as great anymore, is he gonna be a bitter drunk asshole all over again?

He loves the film business, but development hell is trawling and some days there is nothing to do but bark at security guards who've done nothing wrong. Hiding out from cops, cleaning bullet wounds—fuck that, he's had enough for one life. But his heart hammering, jittery everywhere except his hands; throwing down a stack of bills in front of Amanda, telling her to buy whatever she damn well wants and then some; and _crashing_—sleeping like the fucking dead, for a guy too prone to jolting awake from nightmares and reaching for a gun…shit, he doesn't need that stuff now but what about in a year?

Amanda senses his darkening mood, though she's barely a quarter awake. He has over twenty years of deciphering her drunken ramblings, so he's reasonably sure he hears her right.

"If it's something so…so little I never even hear about it…I wouldn't know I'm supposed to be mad at you."

It's not like the time she snarled at him to find a motel, words barely escaping her clenched jaw and shaking fury. It's also something his wife would never say while sober. _Fuck it. In vino veritas. _Maybe he's a bastard for burying his face in her neck, kissing her pulse, and wondering how many nuns he saved in a past life to earn this kind of good karma.

* * *

"_Mikey?_ Don't go depressed drunk on me!"

Fingers snap an inch from his face and Michael snaps back to his rooftop, slapping the hand away. Trevor sits closer, eyebrow cocked. _Fuck, maybe I have had too much to drink._ His friend's face is titled, half-hidden in the wavering shadows thrown off from the pool. Michael tries to rally.

"It's—" _In vino veritas_, he groans to himself. _Fuck it._ Michael shoves himself up, weight leaning on his hands. "Consulting only. Like Lester, but more experience than theory. Get your own full-timers."

Trevor snorts, less scornful than usual. "Argue semantics all you want, sugartits. I'm a CEO. I hoard contractors so I can shortchange my staff."

_**Staff.**__What a joke. Less a staff than a crew, and less a crew than a pack of wild dogs._

Trevor gnaws on ideas like a hound on bones. Michael is too sauced to_ really_ care, but he's not sure if Los Santos's criminals or police force are about to be more fucked up.


	2. Coke-addled car bomb

**Wild Dogs**

**Chapter Two: Coke-addled car bomb**

**A/N: **Yo! Thanks for the warm welcome! At the moment, the vignettes are one-shots that loosely interconnect—like when you travel in certain circles and get that 'it's a small world after all' feeling. As always, feedback is much appreciated.

* * *

If Patrick McReary hates one thing about Los Santos, it's the goddamn sun. In Liberty City the sun behaved itself, rising at a decent hour, blocked out by tall buildings and overcast days. In Los Santos, curtains and duct tape can't keep out the blazing light at seven in the morning.

Packie is a man of habit, especially his coke habit. He sleeps until noon, rousing himself when there's something worth waking for. _"Pancakes," _his sister Kate said once. _"Breakfast for dinner," _Packie had snapped back. As if he needed coffee.

If there's a second thing he hates about Los Santos, it's money. Somehow in Liberty he always had enough cash or clout for a night's worth of blow. Los Santos doesn't lack for cocaine, but like everything else in this sun-bleached city, it's effin' expensive. That hardly mattered, until his money ran out.

_Shit, reduced to NoDoz and Bronkaid, just to take the edge off. Frankie would be laughing himself sick._

But when Packie thinks of what he likes about Los Santos, the list rolls on. Open spaces—forest and nature close enough to touch, making him feel free. Free to do anything, write his own future. Great weather—he's only sloshed home once, though the drivers don't seem to realize when it's torrenting rain. Often he thinks of Gerry, caged like an animal back east.

_"Hey, Packie, don't stay here on account of me." Gerry reaches across the visitors table to ruffle his shorn hair, the gesture ingrained even when Packie settled on a close buzzcut. "And put away the junk. Lasses don't like the melted-nose look."_

Leave it to Gerald to become a teetotaler in the pen, if only to do things differently than Derrick, who became heroin's bitch before he even found the showers.

Screw Gerry. Take away a yuppie's afternoon latte and see how he claws your eyes out. Take away Packie's swag and watch him earn every bar-brawling Irish stereotype that crossed the Atlantic.

But lack of funds is the implacable enemy. He can't borrow—a life of crime doesn't build one's credit score, and he can't beg—he's too proud. He's reduced to shitty jobs for shittier pay. So the idea works its way between his ears. _Use the chance to go clean. Get rid of that damn stuff, save your nose, sleep like a regular person, make your sister stop worrying you're going to wake up dead in a dark alley._

Then effin' Michael De Santa rolls into his life. Literally, in some fancy car he doesn't even care about the cops seeing, a night when Packie was extra stupid and extra fixated on seeing some green. He hardly saw any of it, too proud not to slide Michael a stack of bills for bailing him out of this clusterfuck. But it was a good move in the end, as Michael hired him for a big score—cleaning out the smuggest jewelry store in town.

* * *

Packie is giddy as a schoolboy as glass shatters and piles of glittery jewels disappear into a duffle bag. When he's tearing through tunnels on a dirt bike, wheels churning through mud like some warhorse, he wonders how to bottle this feeling of fucking _joy_. A real damn heist, like that time he, Michael, Derrick, and Niko fucked over the Liberty City coppers.

_"We're Irish. We take our share of knocks, but we land on our feet."_

_"It's never gonna be there," Packie snaps with affection as Gerry puts his hand back on the steel table._

_"Don't know why you cut it all off. Your hair's not bright red, but a bit of it's there. Should still be a bit of good luck."_

He's landed on his feet, as the van screeches around a corner, rumbling to the lockup. This guy Michael is smug as hell, but seems to know—or thinks he knows—what the fuck he's doing.

Michael's making an effort to look authoritative, forcing himself to stop rocking against the steering wheel. The guy's dark eyes are borderline manic when he twists to address his crew at a stop light. "You're cut's coming—we met at Lester's place, so you know where he works if ya don't see the money soon."

"Hey, I trust you." Packie shrugs and pops his neck. The stupid kink's been there since his big bank robbery, when a blast slammed him into a cement wall. Niko had dragged him to his feet. The guy wasn't like Michael—Niko was always calm, even when screaming at cops and guineas

"Don't blow it all on blow." Michael chuckles, once they are parked and on foot again. "Or weed or Ritalin or whatever you kids take these days."

_Kid?_ He crosses the fucking country and he's still a kid? But adrenaline is taking the edge off his temper—Christ, always the little brother. Michael's bringing to mind something his Ma says—_"smiling like a fox that just slaughtered a chicken coup." And got away with it_, Packie thinks. The old fox pulled it off though though.

A week later, as promised, his bank statement chirps on his phone with a hulking deposit. He's sure not to waste it. Packie buys the best fucking coke he can get his non-film industry hands on.

* * *

Just his luck he assumed Vinewood was a swanky place to live. It's janky as hell. A block over from the fancy theaters and Walk of Fame and tourists think they've wandered into a ghetto. As Packie learns, _West _Vinewood is where everyone wants to live, everyone not living in Rockford Hills or Hawick.

It's a warm Friday when he ends up in a club with a green neon snake above the door—he's only into clubbing when it feels like he's sweating menthols.

_How many lines? _Shit, he forgets. _Numbers are for snipers and geeks anyway._ _Eight _is the only number sticking out in his mind now. All Packie knows is he feels good. The fuckin' best since he's gotten to this dry-as-fuck place in the middle of the desert. Maybe the chop hiatus was a blessing—he's feeling too much like he's in a Vinewood movie to get that eyes-at-your-back queasiness he knows is just the cola talking but shit he's never argued with it, least of all when it's making him paranoid.

Despite his numb throat his mouth is cotton-ball dry, but nothing a little plastic won't fix once he finds the bar, some neo-noir hulking thing of dark wood and purple lights.

There's a girl sitting at the bar when he leans against the wood to order his drink. _On the damn rocks, please._ He won't be able to taste much of anything but at least it'll wet his whistle. The chick's glancing over, her skin fanning Technicolor under the lights. He says something she can't hear—hehehe, Frankie taught him that trick. She leans closer, her bar chair putting her head above his. Her breath is cold on his face, icy from her drink. His heart's pounding…not from the girl…but that's not her fault.

Packie's a generous guy—Christ, he's feeling so good, he's can't keep it all to himself. A flash of the pill holder, packed with white stuff, and she's sliding off the high chair. She's at least tipsy, swaying against him, grinning when he steadies her. His hand is around her wrist, pulling her to a sofa-bench in the corner. At least LS people know how to party. His heart is pounding along with the music. Faster, faster, echoing Rihanna as she croons about guys or diamonds or something.

The chick's hair is purple one moment, bright red the next, changing with the strobe lights. God, this is the Los Santos he's heard about. A rolling party, without the claws and knives of Liberty, where decent guys are up for honest heists and straightforward holdups. Maybe more guys like Niko. _Shit_, he feels good.

The jewelry store will hold him over for months. In the meantime…

Packie is saying something that keeps the girl smiling. Except he's thinking of the limo he saw a block away from the club, some bimbo standing up through the sunroof to wave at passerbys. Why was he so annoyed at the time? It seems fun. He likes having fun.

"_Hey?_"

The girl's head is tilted, smile fading. _Impatient bitch._ Aw hell, he's not one to judge. He's fussing with the pill holder but he can't get a good grip. It's a slippery bastard, or maybe his hands are.

"Did I ever get my drink?"

He can't hear himself, just feels the words on his lips when they pass his numb throat. He must've lost his drink.

"Are you ok?"

_Never better_, he says. Except he doesn't. _It's the thought that counts._ Heh, his heartbeat's outracing the music, some Ke$ha throwback. This chick's teeth are white, even in the gyrating light. _Really_ white, bleached like everything else here.

She's prodding his shoulder, then takes his jaw, tilting his face toward hers. _Fuck woman! Gimme a minute the thing's slippery._ She's so grabby she must be hard up for a fix. Her mouth is moving, voice inaudible. It looks like "baby."

_I'm not a baby, stupid girl, Kate's the baby._ Fuck…his heart's going too fast, blazing past the music, barreling down the backstretch like that time he was at the racetrack.

She's saying something else, drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears. The music's gone to hell, all tinny and scratchy.

_Aw shit._ He knows something's wrong. The girl's smiling wide as she palms his forehead. She has no reason to smile; he just called her a bitch. At least he thinks he did at least. It's a false smile, the kind given to kids so they won't freak out when they break an arm falling off the monkey bars. _I'm not a kid!_ And he doesn't have a fever, Jesus, this place is just fucking hot.

Somewhere, he knows this has to do with all the coke he chugged down his nose.

_Your teeth are too white._

The lass is digging through some purse or pocket—he can't tell. He can't see much besides her teeth. _Fucking club lights._ His throat's still too dry. So is his nose. Shit, he needs to sneeze.

Packie doesn't remember a sneeze hurting so much. And aw fuck, he sneezed on her_. Wiped that fake smile off her face. _She's speckled in something, over her chest and neck. It flashes from black to purple to red. She touches her throat, smearing it all over, looking pissy.

The music screeches in his ears and her teeth are too white.

"Hey, I don't feel so…" _Sorry I sneezed on you…_

Something is rammed down his throat, bitter and crumbly. He tastes it through the numbness.

_The fuck did you give_—he tries to push the crazy chick away. Tries.

Everything goes from white to black, even her teeth.

* * *

Packie cracks open a heavy eye and finds more white…what did he think was white?

_Fuck._

His arms are jelly, one draping over a plush cushion. He's staring at his hand, limp under his bent wrist, lying atop carpet but feeling none of it. Some dead pale thing.

With a groan, he rolls onto his back, dragging his dead arm up to lie across his stomach. His stomach rolls too, his brain following and banging around his head.

_Can't puke. I never had dinner._

The hellish light streaks in above him, through a gauzy curtain that does a shitastic job keeping the sun out. His head is swimming and this fucking sunlight isn't helping.

_First thing…where am I?_

This isn't his stupid Vinewood apartment. It smells a bit like oranges, not like his place. This couch isn't his. Why would he buy a white couch?

_C'mon, you've woken up in places you can't remember before. Keep it cool._ _Keep it cool so you don't start dry heaving._ At least before there was usually a chick curled up beside him to fill in the gaps, or make him realize they didn't matter.

The ceiling is white, the walls a creamy fawn color.

"Hey."

He twists his neck as far as he can, the kink aching like a motherfucker. It's the chick with the white teeth, standing in an archway. She's wearing jeans and some no-sleeve silvery shirt.

_You do have red hair. _It was only a guess back at the club. Her eyes are greenish-brown. That's when his brain decides to dump all the memories he's barely piecing together.

"What the—"

"Coke. You got fucked up." Her voice is low, throaty. Annoyed, or at least pretending to be annoyed.

But he remembers bits now. Flopping down in the seat, nose burning. Needing to sneeze..._oh shit_…he remembers sneezing. Remembers her spackled with something he only now recognizes. His nose feels all crusty and everything smells like copper. He wishes that girl wasn't standing in front of him now, arms crossed, head cocked.

"And how did I get here?"

She shrugs, all sharp collarbones and stiff-crossed arms. "The benzo settled you down some. You shuffled along and passed for drunk so I could get you in a cab and dump you on my sofa."

Packie's rubbing his temples, his brain feeling like scrambled eggs. In the McReary family there was never a "don't do drugs" talk. It fell to Frankie and Gerry, who instead gave him the "don't get caught and don't kill yourself" talk. Get into trouble and you get to a hospital—sure they'll report it, but having drugs in your body isn't a crime, just in your pockets. No way to prove some Guido psycho didn't drag you into an alley and inject you with skag.

Speaking of pockets…

"You stole my stuff."

She snorts, pushing a lock of russet hair behind her ear. "On the table." She crosses the room, sinking into a chair near the couch, fingers drumming on the arm. "Your heart was going nuts and your pupils were black holes. The benzo helped." Her dour mouth quirks the smallest bit. "The hospital would report an OD…likely the cops wouldn't do anything, but if you're in the system, I don't know. Plus, you wouldn't tell me where you or Michael lived."

_The fuck?_ His phone's locked, no way she saw his contacts. Somewhere he remembers thinking, again and again, how Michael said not to blow the cash on blow. He probably mumbled it like some retard. He glances sideways at the girl. Skinny chick, all cheekbones and sharp angles, but with nice reddish gold hair. Her teeth aren't that white. _Shit_ he was fucked up last night.

"Stupid…" Dragging home a stranger? He's done it, but he's a guy. If Kate pulled something like that…

The girl's eyes are narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You. Are stupid. Or crazy. You carry benzos around in your fucking purse and drag strangers home—fucking guy strangers. I could be some psycho bank robber." He's being a jackass, but that's never stopped him before.

Her lip's curled, neck all stiff. It's not a smile when she bears her teeth, cold-eyed like a raptor. She leans forward, close enough he can smell grimy coffee on her breath.

"If you abuse my generosity my butler will break your kneecaps and dump you at a pig farm."

_Fuck, she's crazy. And you're being a jackass._ His head hurts, he barely feels his feet, and Christ he wants a shower. _And you're bitching at this chick when you're not sure if you can stand up. _It takes a moment of concentrated effort, but he raises his arm to offer peace.

"Oi, calm your tits. I'm guessing you're a Valium addict or selling it to housewives. Nothing wrong with that, though benzos are lame. I guess you're my crack angel."

The girl sits back, mouth quirking. "You were useful for something. I swore off the stuff and there I was about to snort it."

For the first time since the club he feels like cracking a small smile. "Fuck willpower?"

"Shitty day."

She's a bitchy little crack angel, but she brings him some Advil and Diet eCola and calls him a cab. As the NSAIDs march through his brain cells, he gets a better look at the house from his place on the couch. House is the wrong word. More like giant house. The walls are speckled with art, the floors tile covered in carpet, and the couch he's sprawled on would cost half a year's rent. Fancy digs.

The sun's too fucking bright when he steps into her wide driveway. He'd shielding his eyes, but he thinks he's somewhere in Rockford Hills. As he's slouching against the door, forehead on the cool glass and mumbling his address, he realizes two things.

One, the house was empty other than the chick—no sign of this made-up psycho butler…which sounds stupid the longer he thinks about it, but shit if it didn't make him pause at the time. Second, he never got her name. He doesn't think Crack Angel will get him very far.

Christ, he needs a shower. He still tastes copper with every snuffle. Packie's never been one to shy away from a fight or criminal venture, but if there's one thing he hates about Los Santos and Liberty, it's the pervading smell of blood.


	3. Choking on a white collar

**Wild Dogs**

**Chapter Three: Choking on a white collar**

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who's following this little ditty. Currently in my notes I have jots for a bunch of characters. Any POVs in particular people want to see? I have plot threads outlined but there is a degree of fluidity…not to mention replacing old ideas with better ones ;-)

* * *

Michael has long stopped caring what anyone thinks when he orders a late-morning mocha with espresso chips and whipped cream. His doctor says they would kill him—from the sugar, saturated fat, or non-organic espresso, depending on what's the fad. The highlight of that doctor visit was rolling his eyes and replying if an espresso chip did what a dozen bullets couldn't, he'd get one engraved on his tombstone. So he orders his motherfucking mocha, and a skinny latte for Amanda with a hefty shake of cocoa powder as per her text.

Returning home bearing caffeinated gifts, he finds his wife in the kitchen, sitting where the juicer used to be and talking to a girl leaning against the opposite counter.

"Hiya Trace," he says, hoping to spend some time with her before she leaves for college. He doesn't expect Amanda to look up like she's startled and shake her head to indicate his mistake.

It's not Tracey—they don't even look alike, and she seems closer to Jimmy's age than his daughter's. Amanda doesn't really bond with the fat cat housewives on their block so it's rare someone visits not related by blood or payroll.

"Ah," he ventures lamely, "couldn't really see you."

"Hey." The redheaded girl nods in greeting, arms crossed over a silk tank top.

He hands Amanda the latte while the girl pulls out her phone. Amanda takes a long sip of her drink.

"Sorry, I should've told Michael to get you something. Michael, this is Mira."

From the girl's not-quite-grin, Michael expects her to say she's vegan or morally against caffeine. Instead she shrugs. "They never get my order right anyway." Her voice is low, without the yippy southern San Andreas inflections he's gotten used to.

"So, you two met…"

Amanda answers that a mutual acquaintance introduced them, but he can tell from the set of her jaw he's a lumbering third wheel. _Whatever._ He loves his wife, but he has no desire to hang around while they talk about yoga or Grain of Truth or whatever's trending on Bleeter.

But fuck it, he's a thinker by nature, and as he heads for the den he wonders if the skinny redhead was some kind of test—Amanda's idea of throwing a steak in front of a dog and seeing if it knows 'stay.' Ha, he would have to remind her most of the women within a five mile radius annoy the fuck out of him. Why else did he used to book it across town to the Vanilla Unicorn?

_Drink your damn sugar and shut it._ Michael is his own worst enemy. _Be happy you fat fuck that she's made a friend._ He's flicked on the TV and settled into the sofa, but it's all news and cartoons.

Maybe that's been her problem. Amanda's too fiery for these brain-dead botox hags. He tries not to think about her stable of boy toys, just as she now rarely mentions his own missteps. Academically speaking, the guys were all high-energy Labrador types, except Fabien LeDouche—slapping Tantric on anything apparently makes it sexier. Michael can remember how foxy he was at twenty-five.

_Be happy she's happy._ _We have our problems_—like being linked more by criminal history than undying love—_but we make it work_.

Except that night she seems a little_ too_ happy. Maybe it's shitty sign about their marriage, but he knows something's up when he walks into his bedroom and she's kissing him like he smuggled in European absinthe. Her eyes are slightly unfocused, pupils too small for the dim light, and her smile looks boozy. They've had this dance before, and the music is always some kind of opiate.

_Fucking Los Santos._

He's being unfair. They spent a long-ass time in the Midwest, long enough to choke on their vices. Stripping's hard he supposes; Amanda always had a weakness for instant ways to feel better, to feel free and grounded at once. He was always one for happiness without the baggage, for moments he could feel decisive without making decisions. Or, when relative stability dragged on, for anything that gave him a spark.

They don't keep each other on the straight and narrow, but they keep each other within spitting distance. He'd broken three fingers during a score once, and a month later she drowned his Vicodin and tracked down some decent weed—not the easiest in the Midwest. When she seems too happy for no reason, paired with chatty nothings and swoony goodnights, he hunts for whatever part of the poppy she's gotten attached to.

Still, asking someone riding the opiate train about a rediscovered friend is stupid. Michael kisses her back, enjoys her moans, and waits for her to get dozy. It doesn't take long. Soon she's dreaming pretty, curled up in some skimpy nightgown, lips parted in an indolent smile. Time to find her cache.

_She's so gorgeous when she's happy._ Fucker who sold the stuff to her is going to get Michael's fist through his cortex.

Nothing suspicious on the counter and nothing under the sink. She's never been one for stuffing things in pipes…hopefully she's not starting now.

He's digging through her nail polish kit and finding nothing, when he realizes the medicine cabinet's cracked open. _Hiding in plain sight. _There's a perfectly innocuous bottle with _Amanda De Santa_ printed on one line, _Percocet_ on another. So he's tracking down a prescription writer or a Dr. Feelgood, not a drug dealer.

_Pussy._ He'd rather go on a manhunt than get in a fight with Amanda. _I'm sure as fuck not going to be the one she blames for yanking her out of her happy place_. _Let it be on some broke-ass med student._

Nailing the dealer requires some small manner of guile. The next morning when she's picking up her phone, Michael gets close enough to wrap his arms around her waist and nibble on her neck—earning a distracted giggle while keeping his eyes locked on her fingers as she swipes in a passcode. Once he hears the shower he's flipping through her phone.

_Recent calls._ That one's the pharmacy—telling her to pick up her prescription no doubt. He calls the unnamed numbers he doesn't recognize. Fish restaurant. Nail salon.

Third number: _"Hey. You know you can—"_

A lady?

"Stay the fuck away from my wife."

_"The hell?"_ the voice snaps back.

_Ha, chica, you don't out trash-talk Michael Townley._ He's smiling in his rancor. "Write her anything stronger than cough syrup and all the oxy in LS won't cover the bones I'll break."

She hangs up with a disgusted scoff. _Stupid hag. _There aren't any more numbers to try. If it's the wrong one, well, alchohol explains everything.

Michael heads to the master bathroom. An advantage of Rockford Hills is square footage. The bath and shower were in part a gift to her—a cave of tile, steam works, LED lights, and water pressure a firefighter would envy. Best of all she can't see him when he's at the medicine cabinet.

He counts the remaining pills. Toss them down the sink? She'd buy another bottle just to prove she could. Twelve Percocet tabs.

_Ten. She'll chalk it up to forgetting about double-dipping. _He has nowhere to be today, and Amanda's heading off to teach yoga.

He crunches down two and gargles mouthwash. _You can take the boy out of the trailer park but you can't take the trailer park out of the boy._ Plus, he's a certified thrill-seeker and chaos addict. Downers aren't his crack. Sometimes, he just likes the hazy bliss of synthetic poppy.

* * *

Three days later Amanda's cranky as fuck about something she won't tell him about—he's guessing she wants more scripts and her supplier isn't coming through. Even Jimmy notices at breakfast, making some strange motion at him when Amanda isn't looking.

Michael looks back in confusion.

_'You and Mom?'_ Jimmy mouths, moving his fingers like a crocodile or hand puppet.

Oh, _yapping_. _Fighting._ _Whatever._ He shakes his head, putting down his cup of coffee.

"Ugh this coffee's fucking shit! No point in being addicted to the fucking stuff if it fucking sucks!"

Amanda returns to the table, scowling at her mug of coffee as if it's battery acid. Like they didn't drink worse in the old days. Michael supposes he can buy her some fancy espresso machine for Christmas.

He hasn't said anything about the Percs or the prescription writer—shit, he kinda-sorta feels bad about it but can he really complain when she drags him into their room and rides him like he's paying for new implants?

_Let it pass._ She'll be an unholy bitch for a few more days, she'll shake off whatever's left of withdrawal, then life continues as usual. There's a new movie being made, a proposed noir-action take on _Paradise Lost_. The surprise twist is Lucifer's not the hero at all, just a self-deluded has-been. Michael is Solomon's right-hand producer on it. So, he's feeling solicitous.

"Want me to make a Bean run, babe?"

Amanda's blue eyes shift from pissy to slightly less pissy. "That would be great, honey. Jimmy? Order."

"Uh whatever's low-calorie." Aww, he should congratulate Jimmy on his dedication. His boy is starting to lose the flab. Maybe a hot personal trainer for Christmas? It's not like he can't afford it.

_Watch your attitude of fucking gratitude, Mikey. _That's more or less what the foxy Korean woman running the vegan restaurant said when Amanda dragged him there for her birthday. Michael fishes for his car keys and ducks out before Amanda can get crankier.

The Bean Machine is empty save for a glaze-eyed barista and some girl flipping through an iFruit pad. Michael orders his mocha, with extra whipped cream, and adds two skinny lattes. Lounging by the pickup area as the baked teenager flicks on the blender, Michael notices the lone girl reaching for her vibrating phone.

"Hey—I got your message. Three sound good?"

_Hey. _He knows that voice.

It's the redhead, her back to him. She's dropping her phone back into her whale-sized leather bag when Michael sidles up. Of course the only friends Amanda makes are gigolos, Tantric douchebags, or drug dealers—fake prescription writers, whatever the street name is in Rockford Hills.

"Most people here are writing screenplays. At least you're turning a profit."

The girl jerks around in her seat. He recognizes her voice, just as she recognizes his. Michael offers her a slaughterous smile as he takes the seat across from her. She's straightening, stiff fingers drumming like bird-thin pistons. If he still smoked he'd feel compelled to offer her a cigarette.

"Long day?" He jerks his chin at her coffee cup. "Want another one?"

The girl—Mira, he recalls—narrows her hazel eyes. "Not from you."

_Fuck._ She can't be much older than Jimmy. _God, these fucking kids._ He sold pot in high school because no one in town would hire him besides the skeezy mechanic. It wasn't a fucking extracurricular activity.

"So what is it? Delayed-onset rebellion? Finding a use for your art degree?"

Michael considers himself a gold medalist at riling people up. Her scowl deepens—she looks wonderfully contemptuous. And deferential to the adage discretion is the better part of valor. Her chair screeches as she pushes to her feet, reaching for her bag. But Michael is faster than he looks, and it's not a wide table. Before she can fully stand he grabs her wrists. She yelps, swallowing it with a clack of teeth.

"_Staaay._ I'm in no hurry to get back. My wife's biting heads off thanks to the Percs."

Maybe that's when she realizes the one barista is stoned as balls, listening to Metallica, and in the back corner cleaning the blenders. She swallows and sinks back into her seat. The moment he lets go of her wrists her fingers are drumming against the table.

"So?" Her voice is lower. Low to cover up unsteadiness he'd bet.

"I want to know why you're risking jail time for pocket money. Are your parents too strict?"

Gold medalist, returning champion. The girl's eyes shift from scornful to blood-spitting furious. The drumming click cuts off, her fingers splayed—if this wasn't Rockford Hills he thinks she'd be reaching for a knife.

"Dead, you bastard. Dead and broke." Her eyes are a fraction wider. She rubs her wrist. "Funny how _owning_ a house means paying taxes on it. I can't even sell it now thanks to everyone else going broke."

Right up there with cancer is dead parents—those ripostes that you can't counter without feeling like a scumbag. Michael has felt like a scumbag on and off since the '80s, but it's never stopped him.

"That's why you get a _job_."

He knows as he's saying it the girl is caught between the urge to slap him and shore up her pride. Michael knows too well how brittle pride is. But he must admit, you never grow too old to enjoy giving angry things a poke.

Instead, she smiles. It's a smile he understands, across all economic and societal barriers. When it's smile or cry.

"My degree was in philosophy. It_ is_ fecking useless. Name a job requiring no experience that pays anything—I wouldn't crack property tax, not to mention food or my car. I mean, I was schooled in Ireland from twelve up, but I never needed a work visa."

_Escort work, erotic housekeeping...meet the prerequisites and there's little in way of experience_...but Michael doesn't know how hot her espresso is, and Trevor showed him once the damage you could do with really hot coffee. He keeps his mouth shut, so he can convince himself there are some levels of douchebaggery even he won't cross.

Anyway, the girl has a point. A small, stupid point, but a point. Michael still feels like chewing her out for laziness and self-entitlement, but he supposes he's going soft in his old age. Plus, she's not lying about her finances. It only takes a glance to see her coppery highlights haven't been touched up in months. _God I sound like a fairy. _Not his fault he shacked up with a stripper who always told him, emphatically, what he was paying for. She looks less angry now than stressed.

"Slow down." He raises a hand in peace. "I know something about your…novice enterprise…how long have you been at it?"

She shrugs. "Six months."

"So, you're fine for food and car insurance—it won't cover your taxes and will eventually get you arrested."

With some people, Michael learns more by what they don't say. The sharp-eyed girl is breathing harder, but steady. Amanda said she was twenty-five—'just leaving school' doesn't add up. If he were to guess, some kind of rehab forced a sabbatical. What better way to develop a passing knowledge of pharmaceuticals?

"Write me a script," he says.

A long blink. "Excuse me?"

"I want to see how stupid or well-trained these LS pharmacists are. Write me something—anything."

She looks perplexed a moment more, before whipping out a pad of prescriptions and uncapping a pen. Less than ten seconds and she hands it over. Michael skims it. _An anorectic, very funny._

"I can barely read this."

Mira snorts. "That's the point."

"I know," he agrees. "I'm saying it's a good fake. Shitty handwriting, abbreviations that look like some Farsi take on Latin, believable dosage. What if I called the number?"

"An official-sounding voicemail." She shrugs. "But that's never happened."

"It'll be your clients who fuck you over." His acquaintances are more the supplying type than the writing type. But he can guess. "They'll need a fix, bring in scripts too early, too often, to the same pharmacy. Sure they'll get caught, but they'll rat you in a heartbeat."

From the glower in her eyes, he knows she's thought about this.

Sometimes, when he's boozy and stumbling around in his own head, he wonders if he actually had a choice. Two jail visits by twenty, more formal education inside the pen than in college. No choice at all. Steal or starve. Or scrape by, breaking his back or pride every day, with minimum wage and a rusty trailer to show for it. _Yuck._ The day he leaned against an old train car with a thousand dollars in cash, he knew there was no fucking way he was settling. Maybe some people are just born with an overriding apathy toward the law. Michael supposes…ah, fuck what he supposes.

"Look, I'm going to give you the number of a friend, one who's not quite a stranger to your brand of self-employment. He needs an assistant. If he likes you, he'll pay you better than your current customers. And he's the chatty type, so maybe you can get some mileage out of that philosophy degree."

Always one for the morbid, his mind had wandered to Trevor, followed by _hell to the fucking no_. Michael doesn't care about the psycho's talent scouting, but neither is he the guy who feeds baby goats to lions.

It doesn't have to mean criminal. Lester can use her for assistant work—recon, errands, maybe a bit of hacking. Michael knows the guy has a soft spot for pretty faces. Guiding amateur weekend criminals to more educational paths shouldn't fill him with accomplishment, but when her mouth softens the slightest and she murmurs a _thank you_, he feels like he's coaxing a stray dog out of a corner. It seems strangely like a good deed.

Something still nips at him. "I'm serious. Sell my wife anything again and I'll cut your throat. Were you only hanging out with her to sell scripts?"

Wariness—he sees it in the way her face tilts. "No."

"Good."

After writing one of Lester's numbers on the back of the fake script, h_e_ scoops up his long-abandoned coffees and makes for his car. The girl remains, flipping through her tablet. Once in the car he texts Lester a head's up. The little guy has been complaining recently of problems getting around the city. Damn, he should advertise as a kiddie criminal coach.

* * *

It's a month or so later he's driving back from the studio, parking and heading to the front door. A familiar engine rumbles up his driveway, and his stomach does an involuntary cringe.

"Mikey!" Trevor's swinging out of the driver's seat as he cuts the engine. "Time for a consult, hope you accept walk-ins. Where the fuck is your secretary?"

He's brought a full truck.

A guy leans an elbow on the passenger window, heavy metal throbbing from his headphones. Something about his scarred face is familiar; Michael swears he's seen him at the Vanilla Unicorn. In the back of the truck he spots Packie McReary, who waves before he leaps out and offers a hand to the third passenger. The third passenger has Michael digging into his pocket, finding Lester's nonexistent picture, and hammering out a text.

_You motherfucker._


End file.
